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THE SONG OF THE SCARLET HOST 
AND OTHER POEMS 









The Song of the Scarlet Host 



AND OTHER POEMS 



BY 



JOSEPH BERNARD RETHY 



PORTLAND, MAINE 

SMITH & SALE, PUBLISHERS 

MDCCCCXV 






COPYRIGHT 
SMITH & SALE 



JUL 12 1915 

'C(,.A4n6683 



:n 



DEDICATED TO 

GEORGE SYLVESTER VIERECK 



CONTENTS 



THE SONG OF THE SCARLET HOST 

THE WANDERING JEW 

TO AN OLD MAN 

TO MY LOVE CHILD 

BILLY SUNDAY . 

ODI ET AMO 

INVECTIVE 

HATRED . 

TO A FOOLISH VIRGIN 

THE CZAR OF RUSSIA 

THE WAITER WHO LOOKED LIKE OSCAR WILDE 

IN A GARDEN OF GARDENIAS 

AN EPISODE 

A RIDDLE 

TO MIRIAM 

LULLABY 

TO THEODORE ROOSEVELT 

TO THEODORE ROOSEVELT 191 

REINCARNATION 

THE HUNGARIAN HUSSARS 

IN THE SILENCE OF THE SUMMER NIGHT 



3 

5 
8 
10 
12 
14 
IS 
17 
18 
20 
22 
24 

25 
27 
28 
29 

30 
32 
33 
34 
36 



THE SONG OF THE SCARLET HOST 
AND OTHER POEMS 



THE SONG OF THE SCARLET HOST 



TT TE do not kill, we do not harm ; 
* ^ We make of life a living thing, 
Our breasts for every man are warm — 

We care not be he slave or king. 
Our lips are his if he but ask ; 

We do not wisely choose and plan. 
Our bodies are for every task ; 

We are the mates of stricken man. 

Our skirts they make a bright array — 

They are like banners in the sky, 
And man who loves and is of clay 

Smiles when our silks go flashing by. 
Like palm trees in a desert land 

Our plumes wave proudly in the crowd. 
We walk so all may understand — 

With painted cheek and head unbowed. 

We march in armies like a host 

That succors all the weak and frail. 
No man to us is ever lost 

Or dwells beyond that mystic pale. 
We dare not judge our brothers wrong. 

Nor deem his proffered love too base, 
Or tell him where he must belong 

And find for him a loathsome place. 



To him who never has been kissed, 

We give glad kisses on his mouth, 
And he whom love has long dismissed, 

We save, like rain a field of drouth. 
To him denied of white arms bare, 

Denied of bosoms soft and sweet, 
We give our wealth of flesh and hair 

And grant ourselves from head to feet. 

No scorn of those who never know 

Can change our path until we die. 
It matters not how winds may blow, 

How bitter bleak may be the sky ; 
But marching onward like a host 

That succors all the weak and frail — 
Forever — and at any cost — 

When we are called, we shall not fail. 



THE WANDERING JEW 



^ I '*HE desert is a loathsome place; 

It stretches straight to meet the skies. 
There is no shelter for my face, 

No shield to save my burning eyes ; 
No loveliness is anywhere 

And though I leave a bleeding trail, — 
I am alone in all this glare, 

Like once at sea the first-born sail. 

No breath of living things is here, 

No friendly tree with little leaves. 
No soul to love, no beast to fear, 

No ghastly cross between two thieves. 
No floating shadow of a cloud. 

Not once the call of a glad bird — 
Only an old man, worn and bowed, 

Whose bitter tears are nowhere heard. 

And as I trudge across the sands. 

Beneath the senseless, stupid sun. 
That burns these futile barren lands, 

Until all life save one is done ; — 
The wraiths of my stupendous past 

Flood the great spaces heaven-high, — 
Their disembodied forms will last 

When every living thing shall die. 



Sometimes I see as in bad dreams, 

Strange sins enacted long ago 
And hear unearthly maddened screams 

And on my hands feel warm blood flow ; 
Sometimes I see the moon all red 

And hear a voice that will not still, 
Weeping so sadly in my head, 

Drunk with dark things that never kill. 

And once I saw a vision base, — 

It was so terrible and true. 
In vain, the mighty ages race 

Across the seas of ether blue 
And great worlds dim and feel the blight 

And are become outworn and hoar, — 
Yet still I see that dreadful sight 

And shall forever, ever more. 

Engraved upon the palimpsest 

Of my immortal mind there burns, 
A monstrous scene of foul incest — 

The horror of which sharply turns 
This yellow glare to crimson flame. 

It was within my father's room 

I bear the burden and the shame 

Without the crown of death and doom. 

And in my ear ring wild alarms 

Of battles fought for some great wrong. 

I hear across the field of arms 

And broken limbs, the victor's song. 



But even he is now mere dust 
And no one ever sings his deed, 

Or dares to say that he was just, 
Or pays obeisance to his creed. 

And every tiny sand that stares 

From that illimitable zone. 
Seems like the God that cruelly bares 

My very soul, so that his own 
Remain obscured and safely hid, 

Sacred within his subtle shell ; — 
So that the rabble do his bid 

And dream of Heaven and of Hell. 

If only there would be a night 

To close the terror of this day 
And silver stars that shine so bright 

On kindly homes with children gay. 
Sweet simple gracious little things — 

All that I cannot hope to gain, — 
These are the lust of my longings. 

The mirages of my old brain. 

O I mortals, you who hold, indeed. 

The gift divine, that is your own — 
The boon of death, — O ! intercede 

For me whom now am overthrown. 
A moment's grace is all I ask 

Granted from dark eternity. 
To end this life — to lift the mask — 

For being dead, I shall be free. 



TO AN OLD MAN 



^ I ''ERROR you bring into this room. 

Your smile and cheerful mien are lies ; 
There is no youth within your eyes 

And though your cheeks still bravely bloom, 

You are in league with death and doom ; — 
Therefore you come with laughter bright, 
With wine and flowers of the night 

And flashing in a fool's costume. 

We hate the jest upon your tongue. 

The merriment of your glad song. 

Your happiness will do us wrong, 
Who unlike you are really young. 
You stifle us who have not sung 

And when you dance with ease and grace 

There is a look upon your face 
That leaves us shaken and unstrung. 

The words you say are fine and sweet 

And every step you take is sure 

And seemingly you shall endure 
When we are dust within the deep. 
You walk erect while still we creep ; 

No blunders mar your perfect parts — 

Master you are of human hearts 
And yet with evilness replete. 

8 



Such wit as yours we cannot spin, 
Nor so much kindness show to man 
And with such delicacy span 

The awkward breach 'twixt right and sin. 

Yet still you lose who always win 
And in the moment of your gain 
We mark the poignant rush of pain 

That makes your victory harsh and thin. 



TO MY LOVE CHILD 



/^ LITTLE babe so white and pink ! 
^"'^ You are my own yet never mine;- 
Let him forever dream and think 

That so much sweetness as is thine, 
That so much loveliness and grace 

Should be the counterfeit of him. 
Let his heart hunger near your face 

My lovely child — my Cherubim. 

Your fingers are so small, indeed, 

And yet they grip my soul like steel. 
Before you came I gave no heed 

To all the world save mine own weal. 
But now your bland unblinking eyes, 

The absurd beauty of your toes, 
Your darling belly and strange cries 

Move me tremendously, God knows. 

Yet never shall you know me — child ; 

For always to you I must be 
But one in the great dark and wild, 

A stranger on life's shoreless sea. 
Others shall joy beside you here 

And cull the honey of your soul 
And you shall ever hold him dear, 

Who unlike me, needs pay no toll. 

lO 



Nathless, you are mine, mine own, 

Though other arms shall hold you fast, 
You are my very flesh and bone 

Bound unto me till life shall last. 
Till blow the horns of Judgment Day, 

And man awakes in awe and terror — 
Creeping from out his bed of clay 

To find there is no sin, nor error. 



BILLY SUNDAY 



T TPON his lips a word too base 
^^ For God to hear, for man to heed, 
Both craft and guile writ on his face, 

Behold the prophet of the Creed ! 
Uncouth of form, a roaring clown, 

He holds the rabble by his show, 
While through the pathways of the town 

The God of Man can scarcely go. 

The gold pile rises round his feet 

While he stands on the poor man's mite 
And blinds their eyes to all things sweet 

With visions fierce of Hell's mad light. 
And all things lovely, all things fair. 

In his rough fists become obscene 
Until his foulness stains the air 

And virtue seems a hag unclean. 

The prophet boasts a limousine 

And furs not worn by any saint ; 
He takes the fat and leaves the lean, 

For money surely bears no taint. 
The poor need have no pleasures here — 

Give them no wine nor laughter rare, 
But leave their starved souls, year to year. 

Become mere echoes of despair. 

12 



And all the sleek, sly Pharisees 

Behind this grotesque figure stand 
And laugh with joy amidst their ease 

To see the faker fool the land. 
And they who shut in darkness bleak 

The little lives of children gay 
Are gladdened when the worn and meek 

Go forth to hear the prophet bray. 

Ugly of speech, with cunning small. 

He plays the game and holds the mob — 
Poor souls, with pence they give him all, 

Betrayed by fear and his false sob. 
Yet great is he, untouched by loss, 

For all the rich attend his want 
And, like a flash, I see a cross, 

A broken body, torn and gaunt. 



13 



ODI ET AMO 



^ I ''0-NIGHT the song of a stranger has stirred me, 

Has quickened again old wounds that were dead. 
At the height of the feast, I am sure no one heard me, 

I whispered your name in the things that I said. 
O, there was joy, there were maddening glances, 

From eyes deadly weary of all things save lust, 
And wine and red roses and terrible dances, 

Grotesque beyond measure, yet strangely august. 

By my side incessantly watchful and caring. 

Sat she who has been the shield of my life ; 
Her brow was too troubled, too deep and despairing, 

For my longings she felt like the blade of a knife. 
All my sins and my burdens she has borne with a glory 

And still have I bruised her white body and soul. 
Till her wistful young face tells its brief tragic story, 

Of the tears that have fallen, of the years that must roll. 

Careless, unmindful, like Fate on her altar, 

The stranger sang over his trivial song. 
How should he know to hear me half falter, 

Of a passion so old, of a hatred so long ? 
Still through the haze, through the tumult of laughter, 

I thrilled to your being, I drank your warm breath. 
No doubt rose to conquer of what may come after. 

For I found in that moment the meaning of death. 



14 



INVECTIVE 

T KNOW a woman whose tongue is sharp 

Like a blade stained red with crime, 
Her every word's a sting — a dart — 

She never had a human heart 
And is virulent like sour wine. 

And all the deeds that make her day 
And all the thoughts within her brain 

Are built upon her lust for pay, 
Are based upon her greed for gain. 

She cares for all unworthy things. 

For low, degrading, bagatelle 
And scorns the gifts beloved of kings 

And every lovely miracle. 
She leaves the flowers for the weeds 

And serves each vice with ardent zeal 
And having worshipped all the creeds 

She loves the false and hates the real. 

She 's rotten like some monstrous sin. 

She 's vicious like a cheated whore. 
There is no shame she 's not been in. 

Nor left unentered any door. 
She 's superstitious and afraid, 

A ghost she sees in sun and gloom 
And knowing that all must be paid 

In secret fear she waits her doom. 



IS 



Earth knows none born so vile, so base. 

Within her breast all evils grow. 
Her eyes are glowing lamps that trace 

Her fall from grace to Hell below. 
And on her lips there blooms no smile, 

But ribald laughter wanton, cruel — 
O that mere words should hold such guile 

And give the victory to the fool. 

l'envoi 

O brothers of this sweet fair land ! 

O you whose lives are pure and good. 
Perhaps you will not understand 

As she — who never understood. 
Still by your deeds you hold in thrall 

The God whose throne is Heav'n above 
O pray that He absolve her all 

O pray for her whom I still love. 



i6 



HATRED 



TF I were God and ruled the land and sea 

And every insect and every star, 
And you went wailing round the world for me, 
I still would hold you aloof, afar. 



And as my power bloomed in awe and terror 
And greater all my guerdons grew, 

I would reward each soul, forgive each error. 
But never, never cease my hate of you. 



17 



TO A FOOLISH VIRGIN 



T TOO was young once long ago 

And love and roses were my theme 

And every youthful, lovely, dream 
That like strange, wayward, winds still blow 
Across your heart was mine. The glow 

And passionate, hungry, fire 

Burning in you marked my desire. 
But chaste my heart is now like snow. 
You subtly smile, but it is so ; 

There is no madness in my breast. 

No flaming frenzy, no unrest. 
Nor any joy I care to know. 

In vain your eyes beg and implore. 
Your little fingers in my hair. 
Your white arms round me everywhere, 

Dear child, can stir me nevermore. 

I cannot break the iron door 

And though you die in mortal pain. 
Untouched by me you shall remain — 

Denied till we strike death's dark shore. 

For all your gifts I had before. 

From others who were not unblest .... 

Go, little child, leave me my rest .... 

And stainless wear the cloak you wore. 

i8 



Your lips are drawn and white with foam, 
Where you lie sobbing at my feet, 
Who are so young and still so sweet, — 

Appalled by some gigantic gloam. 

You see, there is no native home ; 
We are but strangers in the wild, 
Both I and you, who are a child. 

Beneath the universal dome. 

Though we may sever sky and loam, 
Can find no healing herb or balm. 
Therefore I cling to mine own calm 

And you must with another roam. 



19 



THE CZAR OF RUSSIA 



A N hundred castles through the land 
■'• ^ For him are little homes of ease 
And when he lifts a feeble hand 

Ten million mortals bend their knees 
And when he says a single word, 

Tall soldiers march in countless legions, 
With lips made dumb and hearts unstirred, 

To hold for him his far-flung regions. 

The walls of all his houses are 

More beautiful than skies at dusk. 
Soft curtains silken and bizarre 

Are stirred by winds of myrrh and musk. 
His floors are studded with white stars 

And his roof glows like suns at even 
And on his throne — the Czar of Czars — 

Is mightier than God in Heaven. 

The wines he drinks are sweeter than 

The nectar drunk by Gods of old. 
And all the loves of anyman 

Are his to have and his to hold. 
No cunning device of the brain, 

No lovely thing of art and skill, 
But are created for his gain. 

Who only lives to slay and kill. 



And yet his head is but a thing 

Of skin and bone and falling hair — 
Ah yes! The czar — the Lord and King — 

Is but a lout stuck in a chair. 
His flesh will fade and turn to dust, 

His kingdom dark, will pass away ; 
The daggers of his slaves will rust 

And there will be a judgment-day. 

Then shall the innocent make known 

Their monstrous wrongs and all the dead. 

And charge upon the Czar's red throne 
And pluck the crown upon his head. 

Into Hell's chaos he' 11 be hurled 
With all his sins and bloody clan, 
While Freedom shall smile round the world 

And bless the brotherhood of man. 



21 



THE WAITER WHO LOOKED LIKE 
OSCAR WILDE 

T SAW last night a waiter stalk 

Amidst the diners gross and gay, 
He held aloft a heavy tray 

Yet seemed apart from all their talk, 

And as I watched I faintly smiled — 
For lo, he looked like Oscar Wilde. 

His head was nobly formed and fine 

And on his face some strange lines told 
Of sins too terrible and old 

For him to carry without a sign — 

Although perhaps the patient child 
Had never heard of Oscar Wilde. 

And as he served us suave and sure 

And brought us little toasted clams 

I waited for the epigrams 
That like the sunlight shall endure — 

But he spake nought, this waiter styled 

So very much like Oscar Wilde. 

The laughter of the diners grew 

Into a din of blatant ease. 

The glasses shone like bloodstained seas, 
The lamplights grotesque shadows drew ; — 

But stolidly our waiter mild 

Attended us, nor dreamed of Wilde. 



O strange adventure in this place ! 

That one so mean should seem so great, 
This peasant with his sober fate 

And yonder Prince with his disgrace. 

I see him now, half boor, half child — 
The man who looked like Oscar Wilde. 



23 



IN A GARDEN OF GARDENIAS 

I AOOM darkened every day of mine, 
^~^ There shone no sun nor any star ; 

Untasted lay the golden wine, 
Unentered swung the gates ajar. 

Through forests flaming with the breath 

Of life, remembered and renewed, 

I walked as on a field of death 
And shuddered in the solitude. 

Until you stood there, mystical 

As any lovely dream that dies ; 

Upon your lips bloomed lyrical 
The single word that never lies. 

And in your eyes I saw the glow 

That wisdom kindles, subtle, sure ; 

Because you taught me all you know. 
Impregnable, I shall endure. 

Of joy, or grief, you spared me not ; 

All was ours save what is dead. 

And God Himself was not forgot. 
Seeing the splendor of Sin's head. 

l'envoi 

Princess, across the weary miles of space 

I stretch my arms and strain you to my breast. 

Here are my lips and here your burning face . . . 
I am so tired and you long for rest. 



AN EPISODE 

** I ''00 dreamlessly, too silent did you pass, 

I did not hear your speech till you had gone. 
There was no rustle in the dark soft grass ; 
Quite suddenly I stood alone. 

A shadow fell across my heart. 

Once more the malice of your sisterhood 
Burnt on my soul its deathless smart — 

And then I understood. 

You did not wrong me. Nay ! 

Your kindness, friend, was half divine. 
How could I lose between a night and day 

What never has been mine ? 

For you are his, and you are his forever. 
Bound by a chain more strong than death. 

Even in your grave you cannot sever 
The chords that living give you breath. 

I saw you shudder in the iron clutch 

Of memory. I knew your fear. 
For you have lost by far too much 

To hold another dear. 

And when you lay beside me stirred, 

Thinking I did not see the mask — 
Because you said a careless word — 

I gave, but did not ask. 



25 



I pitied you beyond my fashion, 
Feeling the depth of your despair. 

A strange and infinite compassion 
Awoke my soul and made me care. 

But now I know what I have always known : 
The gods are harsh, but they are very just. 

Sackcloth and ashes will not now atone 
For love's betrayal in a moment's lust. 



A RIDDLE 

^JIC /"HERE is the joy that once shown in your eyes ? 
And all in vain I seek for signs of grief. 

You pass me in that minute brief, 
Inscrutable and veiled in mystic lies. 
Who don't you speak the word ? Dear friend, time flies. 

We are too young to wait, too old to go, 

And all the years implacable and slow 
Creep on and on. Sometimes I hear your cries. 
Is it too late ? How terrible are words ! 

You start and pale, then watch with weary heart 
Once more the death of disenchanted day. 
Once more the drowsy murmuring of birds, 

And then you lift your head and play your part. 
We know each other and the price we pay. 



27 



TO MIRIAM 

"DEHOLD indeed the loveliness 
■■■^^ Of things that perish and decay. 
If I could only love thee less — 

If thou couldst scorn my lips to-day. 
Ah ! if everything could now cease, 

Perished our love and nought remain, 
Except the tenderness of peace, 

Except the glory and the gain. 



28 



LULLABY 

OLEEP, Beloved, in my arms, 

Lay your head upon my breast. 
I shall save you from all harms, 
Shield you in my bosom's nest. 

Sleep, Beloved, night is here, 
All the birds have gone to sleep. 

And the owl hoots sad and queer 
In the, forest dark and deep. 

Sleep, Beloved, in the gloam 

There are ghosts you may not see. 

They are without nest or home 
And one, who never thinks of me. 

Sleep, Beloved, far and wide 
Little children dream of play. 

I cannot sleep for I have cried 
My heart and all my life away. 



29 



TO THEODORE ROOSEVELT 



TT^ROM haunts of beasts, and tangled vine, 
From unknown jungles and wild dunes, 
From strange new rivers on the line 

Of Capricorn and tropic suns. 
Into a wilderness, indeed, 

Where only fools and knaves hold power, — 
Oh, Captain, come and intercede 

For us who need you at this hour. 

At home our foes are manifold 

And traitors do not feel the light. 
The sword of justice lies in mould ; 

There is no victory for the right. 
We grope in darkness and dismayed 

Afar we hear the roll of thunder ; 
While at the Capitol — outplayed — 

Our Chiefs pile blunder upon blunder. 

Abroad our flag dishonored trails, 

The sport of every bandit king 
And unavenged the widow wails 

Her dead that stare mute questioning. 
We are beset by countless harm 

And stagger on distraught and blind ; — 
Oh for the valor of your arm, 

The courage of your heart and mind ! 

30 



Hail Captain ! — lover of us all ! — 

We watch for you with eager eyes. 
From sea to sea your name we call 

And not until the last man dies 
Can be your deeds and you forgot ; 

For in our heart there burns a flame, 
That even when we shall be not, 

Will crown and glorify your name. 

Only from those who have we ask 

And they are the ones who always give 
And spend and are spent in the task 

That every man may freely live — 
Only from those who have we ask, 

Of them we need no sacred vow, 
Though dark and terrible the task — 

Therefore, Great Captain, lead us now. 

Note — Published in The Intertiaiionaliox June, 1914, when 
Mr. Roosevelt returned from his explorations in South America. 



31 



TO THEODORE ROOSEVELT, 1915 

"IT 7" HEN every villain in the land 

* ^ Made gain by preaching hate and spite 
And wise men tried to understand 

The shade that marks the wrong and right 
When on the nation, sweet with spring, 

The dreadful cloud of wartime fell 
Your voice roared like some monstrous thing 

For blood on earth, for death and Hell. 

When fools in crowded places spoke 

And clamored loudly like their breed. 
There gross and harsh your shrill voice broke — 

Athirst to kill and crazed to lead. 
When every man with head and heart 

Stood waiting silently for light, 
You played a vile and senseless part, 

You tried to plunge our world in night. 

Incensed because your fellowmen 

Think lightly of your noisy prattle. 
Enraged because your poisoned pen 

Has lost its sting, you roared for battle. 
Made bitter by the stinging truth 

That you at last to us are known — 
Lo, like a maddened primal brute 

You cry for flesh and blood and bone. 

Note — Published in The International for June, 191 5. Imme- 
diately after the sinking of the " Lusitania " Mr. Roosevelt, 
without knowing any of the facts, wanted us to declare war on 
Germany. A man who trifles with human life in such callous 
fashion is not worth respecting nor even worth remembering. 



32 



REINCARNATION 



T T THEN you were a bud on the branches bare, 

(O ! sweet ! how wild the March winds blew.) 
I was the chrysalis hung in the air — 
Dead to the beauty everywhere — 
When you were a bud on the branches bare. 

When you splendid bloomed in your petals red, 

(O ! sweet ! dream through the golden hours) 
I broke the shell of my prison shed 
And drifted faint to your blossomy bed 
On a wind made mad by flowers. 



When you were a woman of savage lust, 

(O ! sweet ! you show your teeth and smile.) 
I raised your soul from the very dust — 
I made you love me ; — I said you must. 
And you did — for a little while. 



33 



THE HUNGARIAN HUSSARS 



^ I '*HE road before us is aflame 

And at the turning there is death. 
The stench of powder in our breath 

Is viler still than England's name. 
Yet like the gales that fiercely leap, 
We gallop onward — twenty deep. 

Before us boom the Russian guns, 

A wall of fire blocks our path. 

The whole world shakes in monstrous wrath 
Like crashing suns upon huge suns. 

And as the typhoon's awful sweep 

We gallop forward — twenty deep. 

No Hell of Satan's ever blazed 

More terrible than that red wall. 

Ten thousand men stand up and fall. 
A hill near by is almost razed. 

Yet like an avalanche we keep 

Our mighty onslaught — twenty deep. 

And now we reach their bristling lines. 
The very earth reels with the clash. 
Up Hussars 1 let your lances flash ! 



34 



What do we care for guns and mines ? 
Lo, death itself is but a sleep, 
But Freedom lives — charge twenty deep ! 

They flee ! They run ! The battle dies. 

How still the dark Carpathians stand ! 

There falls a quiet on the land 
Like some cool hand on wearied eyes. 

Hail, Hussars, may your valor reap, 

God's benisons — still twenty deep. 



35 



IN THE SILENCE OF THE SUMMER NIGHT 



TT is one o'clock in the night. 

I am lying on a hard bed in a tiny room, 
I cannot sleep. 

How terrible it is not to sleep. 
My room is high up in a tenement house. 
And my little window looks into a narrow court. 
I will tell you what I hear lying thus upon my back. 

Strange sounds smite the tympans of my ears. 

An old man, on the floor just beneath mine, is dying ; 

He has been dying for a very long time ; 

Night after night he has groaned the long hours away. 

Sometimes he screams in agon)', in a language unknown to me ; 

My heart is filled with terror and with a nameless fear — 

Is it not strange that he should be sorry to go. 

I can hear the cry also of a new born child 

Wailing steadily the night time through. 

The mother of the child cannot comfort it, 

Though she passes the hot endless hours 

Rocking and caressing the baby. 

The father sleeps stolidly, stupidly, near by ; 

He snores and talks in his sleep ; 

And I fancy that the mother is thinking strange, bitter thoughts. 

Then I can hear a man quarreling with a woman ; 
His voice is low, intense, surcharged with hatred ; 

36 



She answers him with the desperate courage of the coward. 

He snarls like a dog. 

Suddenly he strikes her. 

You can hear her body falling limp and inert upon the floor. 

There is a little pause, and after that the man leaves the room, 

Slamming the door behind him : you can hear him walking down 

the stairways. 
Sometimes he stops, in the manner of one who listens in vain for 

a familiar sound. 



Far down below, in the basement, is a cafd. 

Some Italian workmen have been singing there since twilight. 

They sing in a harsh, unlovely, irritating way. 

Now abruptly they cease ; there is a little stir. 

And then a solitary voice is heard in golden song — 

A tenor voice, singing all alone. 

How beautiful it is ! 

It is so limpid and sweet and pure. 

It must be a young man who is singing. 

His voice soothes my spirit and ravishes my soul. 

It appears to me now that silver fountains are playing in the 

courtyard below. 
He stops, O, too soon ! 

They applaud him generously ; but he does not sing again. 
Once more they resume their monotonous and reiterated chorus. 
Perhaps they are tired of life and cannot sleep. 

Mingled with the sounds are a thousand smells — 
The hot reeking summer smells from all the kitchens and the foul 
living rooms. 

37 



Dear God ! why should one bear all this ? 

Is it not wonderful that one can live in such complete misery ? 

I get up from my bed and walk up and down my little room. 
In my mind's eye I see a vision. 

I see green, wet fields shining in the morning sunlight. 
Just above the river bend, like smoke from a pleasant farmhouse, 
The white mists are slowly rising. 

In the woods, amidst the dark and fragrant old trees, the winds 
are rustling and awakening the tiny lyric birds. 

! how delicious are the odors that come from the pines ! 
The perfume of a million blossoms fills my nostrils. 
Only to live is joy and happiness. 

1 leap in the air and race with the wind across the meadows 

melodious with song of bird and insect. 
Suddenly I realize how splendid and thrilling life can be. 
Three little white clouds are drifting lazily in the blue sky. 

It is almost morning. 

The child is still weeping. 

The mother of the child still rocks and caresses her baby. 

The singers in the cafd are no longer chanting their unmelodious 

dissonances. 
On the floor just beneath mine there is quiet. 
I wonder if the old man has died ! 




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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

018 349 840 A 



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